


Outtakes

by bironic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bad Sex, Cliche, Community: sga_flashfic, Humor, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Meta, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/pseuds/bironic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that rarely seem to go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outtakes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to synn and my f-list for chiming in with clichés to play with. And credit to whoever it was who wrote the fic that had an exchange in it similar to the one about lube towards the end of #3. I can't remember where, but I've seen something like it before.

**1\. **

John lay naked on Rodney's bed, waiting for Rodney to get back from the labs. He stretched luxuriously—Rodney's mattress, like most everyone's in Atlantis, was bigger than his—and stroked himself in anticipation. He'd used his fingers to slick up already, and the cuffs lay open by the pillow. Ever since they'd gotten together a few months ago, he and Rodney had had some damn intense sex with those cuffs. Sometimes their encounters were planned; sometimes they were spontaneous like this. Unlike Rodney, who had to have everything now now now, John liked the thrill of the wait.

John let go of his erection and stretched his arms over his head when he heard footsteps and Rodney's voice approach in the corridor. Rodney loved seeing him in positions of surrender; he might be able to take advantage of that tonight, get a long, slow blow job maybe.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, Rodney still ranting about something. Must be on the radio. Well, John would get him off soon enough. In both senses.

The door swooshed open. Rodney was saying, "told her George Bush's _guppy_ would've done better math than that…"

John turned his head to greet him, working up what he thought was a sexy smirk—and saw that Rodney was in fact not on the radio, but actually speaking to Zelenka, who was _standing right next to him_.

Oh, _crap_.

Rodney stopped dead, mouth hanging slack.

John scrambled to sit up and pull the sheets over his lap.

"_Jsem slepá_," said a scarlet-faced Zelenka, quickly shading his eyes.

Rodney chimed in with a heartfelt, "Oh my God."

"I saw nothing, Colonel—"

"Oh my God."

John tried to say something, but he could only manage, "Rodney."

"I—"

"Sorry, sorry," Zelenka was saying, still not meeting John's eyes. "I am not asking, nobody is telling."

"John. Ah. Sheppard. You, ah. Got hit on the head harder than you thought on Tuesday's mission and thought these were your quarters?"

John's embarrassment transmuted suddenly into fury. "Jesus, Rodney, what were you thinking?"

Rodney dropped the pretense. "What, bringing a colleague back to _my_ room so I could finish telling him how hopelessly incompetent his new minions are before destroying him at chess? How was I supposed to know you were going to pick tonight for our sporadic game of 'Sub Not Sub'?" Flushing bright pink, he glanced over at Zelenka. "Um."

"I will just." Zelenka motioned to the door. "See you tomorrow, Rodney."

"So," said John, when Zelenka had fled and his heart felt a little less like it was going to pound out of his chest.

"So. Ah." Rodney laughed a little, then looked ashamed that he'd done it. He sat down at the foot of the bed, playing with the edge of the sheet John was still clutching in white-knuckled fists. "From now on, we make sure we plan everything?"

John put his head in his hands.

   
 

**2\. **

John shoved Rodney up against the wall and kissed him hard on the mouth for the second of what he hoped would be many, many times. Rodney whimpered and pressed back, grabbing fistfuls of John's shirt. This—thing, whatever it was, had been building between them since they'd met four years ago, building to this inevitable climax. So to speak.

And what a climax it would be. John shoved a thigh between Rodney's legs and began to rock sweetly. Rodney dropped his hands to John's ass and held them firmly together, dragging a moan out of him. When Rodney slipped one hand into his pants and between his legs from behind, John bit his own lip so hard he tasted blood.

Rodney must've tasted it too, because he pushed John back. "What—?"

"Ow," John offered.

"Your lip," Rodney said, staring. "Oh, God. Oh, wow, that's a lot of blood."

John swiped at his mouth and chin and looked at the bright smear on his hand. His lip was sort of throbbing.

"Well, head wounds do bleed a lot," Rodney was saying, his eyes still wide.

His own eyes on Rodney's kiss-swollen mouth, John said vaguely, "It's not head wound, it's a…"

"What, lip wound? Jesus, it's dripping all over the floor. Did you bite _through_ it?"

John sighed. It wasn't as bad as any of the dozen or so occasions when he'd been socked in the mouth, but it did sting and it felt swollen, and he couldn't really see any more kissing or, as he'd hoped, blow jobs, in the near future. Besides, it'd be nice if he could keep his favorite shirt unstained. "Got any ice?"

"Forget ice, we're going to see Keller," he said, turning away to get something by the bed. "You'll need stitches. Or at least a tetanus shot. Who knows where your mouth has been."

"Nice, McKay. And what're we gonna tell her when we get there? I was injured making out with you?"

Rodney handed him a bunch of tissues. "I don't know. Tell her we were sparring."

"Sparring." John pressed the tissues to his face so he wouldn't have to think about Keller's doubtful face or the bloody bubbles he'd spit when he'd spoken.

"It works for you and Ronon!"

"Ronon and I _actually spar_."

"Fine, then. We'll say we had a fight and I hit you." Off John's disbelieving look, he added, "You can, ah. You can hit me, if you want. To make it look real."

Huh. That was kind of sweet. "Forget it. Let's just go and get this over with."

"Liquid Band-Aid now, orgasms tomorrow?" Rodney tried.

"Yeah," said John, waving at the door controls with his free hand. He'd go with Rodney and let him make it up to him when they finally made it to a bed.

Armed with Kleenex, they walked down the hall towards the infirmary.

   
 

**3.**

Rodney swirled his tongue around John's nipple and stroked faster, the muscles in his wrist starting to burn with the sustained awkward angle. He took a shuddering breath when John let out a quiet groan. He raised his head to drink in the sight of John pressed back into the pillows, his flushed, sweaty face twisted into a grimace of pleasure.

Jesus. He was having sex with John Sheppard.

Rodney shifted so he could sneak his other hand down to cup John's balls, earning another, louder groan. He carefully slid an exploratory finger further back. Instead of the instinctual tensing or homosexual freak-out or punch in the face he'd braced himself for, John hummed and spread his legs further apart.

Rodney was bombarded with visions of John writhing around a finger or two while he finished him off. Breathlessly, he asked, "Do you—? Can I—?"

"Yeah," John said, and arched a little.

Rodney bid a temporary farewell to that warm, beckoning pucker in favor of scrabbling at the bedside table for the lube.

Except he kept scrabbling. He raised his head, confused. A book, a lamp, a _Spiderman_ comic, and the rest was all smooth surfaces. Where was the handle for the drawer?

John looked up too, eyes glazed. "What are you doing?"

"The lube," Rodney said, stupidly.

"What?"

"It's always right there."

John's eyebrows did something interesting. "Always when?"

"In the bedside table. Always. Unless—" He felt under the pillows for a tube.

"Those tables don't have any drawers, Rodney," John said, lifting his hips meaningfully into the loose fist Rodney had stopped moving.

Nothing under the pillows but lint. Rodney muttered, "Maybe in the bathroom cabinets. Sometimes it's there."

John closed his own hand around Rodney's and resumed stroking.

Ah! "You don't keep it in a shoebox under your bed, do you? Or in a secret compartment in your closet with other kinky paraphernalia?"

John sighed and flopped back. "Rodney, I don't have any 'lube.'" He could hear the quotation marks. "I've got some condoms in the dresser, but that's about it."

"What do you mean, you don't have any lube?"

"You don't think it'd look a little weird for a guy in the Air Force to bring personal lubricant with him to another galaxy?"

"What? Plenty of people who aren't having gay sex use lube. Like, you know." With both hands free, he made a Möbius-like gesture that was meant to indicate that some women needed it, and some of the adventurous ones liked anal too, and that lots of guys used it for their happy alone time, for that matter.

Sheppard slung an arm over his eyes. "Do _you_ have any lube?"

"Well, I. Well, no. I wasn't gay before tonight."

John lowered his arm to glare at him.

"What?" said Rodney. "What?"

   
 

**4.**

Rodney woke to a sinkingly familiar combination of bright light, the smell of antiseptic, and a steady beeping.

"Wha…?" he managed.

"Rodney," John said immediately. "You okay?"

Rodney squinted his eyes open and turned to the sound of the voice at his bedside. "Uh?" he asked the messy-haired smudge getting to its feet.

"You passed out on me there, buddy."

The smudge squeezed his hand and began to resolve into John's worried face.

Rodney frowned. The last thing he remembered, he'd been as deep in John as he could get, having one of the better orgasms of his life so far. Had he missed something? Had they gone on a mission the next day and he'd ended up with amnesia? "What happened?"

John ducked his head. "After—you know—you collapsed on top of me and wouldn't wake up." He looked up again. "Jeez, I thought you had a stroke or something."

_Oh._ His face went hot. "Look, it happens to me sometimes, okay?"

"It?"

"The thing. The passing out thing. When it's. You know. Good." He held up a finger. "Don't let it go to your already overinflated head."

"What, that I made you come so hard you blacked out?"

Rodney groaned.

John let go of his hand and took his seat again. "Dr. Keller said you probably didn't eat for a while and then overexerted yourself. You've been on IV nutrients for a couple of hours."

Overexerted. Oh, no. "You didn't—Did you tell her…?" John would kill him if this of all things was what broke open their secret.

John shook his head. "I got some clothes on you and radioed for a med team. I said we got into an argument about Chewie vs. Worf vs. Ronon and you fainted in the middle of an impassioned monologue."

Rodney snorted. "Really? In your bed?"

"Yeah, something like that. You were taking Chewie's side, by the way, in case anybody asks."

"Oh, as _if_."

John smirked at him. The lines at the corners of his eyes were easing.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Keller called from beyond the curtain. "Is he awake?"

"Yeah, Doc, he's coming out of it."

A moment later, she poked her head in. "Hi, Rodney," she said fondly. "How're you feelin'?"

"Peachy," he said. His stomach rumbled. Well, he'd always said that good sex should be followed by a nap and a hearty meal. "Anyone have any breakfast around here?"

   
 

**5.**

"Yeah," John said between kisses, as Rodney worked him slow and sure in his twisting fist, leaving him aching for more. Tonight, he wanted to do Rodney for a change, just as maddeningly slow as this and for as long as he could draw it out. He slid the hand on Rodney's waist down between his cheeks, rubbing gently.

But Rodney pulled away. "Wait."

John frowned. "What's up?"

"I can't."

Something fluttered low in John's belly. "Can't?"

"Look, it's embarrassing, okay?" Rodney let his hand fall away from John's dick.

John sat up; he needed to be vertical for this conversation. Rodney followed suit.

"The last time we—well, Jennifer says it can happen. To anyone. For any number of reasons."

"_What_ can happen, Rodney?" With dawning horror, he asked, "Are you _pregnant_?"

"Am I—No! Oh, thank you very much, that's about the only nightmare we haven't dealt with in this galaxy."

"Well, what, then?"

"I have an anal fissure, okay?" Rodney snapped.

John blinked, then made a face. That didn't sound good.

"It's probably from when we—you know. The night we dented the wall with the bed frame."

They both paused to remember that session fondly.

Then Rodney went on: "It was itchy; I thought it was a hemorrhoid—I have a family history, my uncle Matt had them so bad he would name them—but then it started to—"

"Too much information!"

"Right. Um. So I can't. For a while."

"How long?"

"She said it could take six weeks. Maybe less, maybe mo—"

"Six weeks!"

Rodney slumped, looking miserable. "We're not supposed to…anything. Not even fingers. And she gave me stuff."

John followed Rodney's gaze to a plastic container on the dresser next to a pitcher of water.

"You can do me for six weeks straight when it's healed, if you want," Rodney said. "Not that it should be much of a hardship until then. I mean, you like being on the bottom, right?"

John really, really did. But it was still nice to trade off sometimes.

He sighed and lay back, holding out his hand for Rodney to join him. "So help me, McKay, you're eating a bran muffin every morning for the rest of your life if I have to have Ronon make sure you do it."

He reached down to work himself open instead, but paused when he found Rodney's fingers slack around the tube of lube. He looked up to find Rodney giving him a crooked smile. "What?"

"The rest of my life, eh?"

John squirmed, caught out. "Um."

"Yeah," Rodney said. "You too."

Something in John's chest loosened. Rodney kissed him, and then they got down to business.


End file.
